


the name of life

by starlitfics



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Childbirth, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Newborn Children, Parent-Child Relationship, Parenthood, Pregnancy, Single Parents, Tenderness, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings, this is so self indulgent but the heart wants what it wants
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-30
Updated: 2020-03-30
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:36:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23384617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starlitfics/pseuds/starlitfics
Summary: He opens his mouth to say something, to greet them--but then ten little fingers are curling into fists against his chest, and the babe is opening its mouth with another gurgling cough. Jaskier holds his breath, and after a long, aching moment, a piercing wail echoes into the night air.And for the first time in a very, very long while, Jaskierlaughs.Inspired by the wonderful ficand a place to rest my headthat has taken over my heart. This is my take on how little Rian comes into the world, and how Jaskier reacts to seeing his little one for the first time.
Comments: 28
Kudos: 258





	the name of life

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ceteiq](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceteiq/gifts).
  * Inspired by [and a place to rest my head](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23097559) by [ceteiq](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceteiq/pseuds/ceteiq). 



> i am emotional. and a little embarrassed. but i am also very inspired, which triumphs over all, i suppose!  
> i don't quite know how to explain myself, other than the fact that i am just very touched by jaskier and rian's relationship. and i'm such a big sucker for writing family fluff, even when the situation for the family isn't quite ideal. meeting your child for the first time must be an emotional rollercoaster, and i really enjoy the challenge of figuring out how a character would react to it!  
> so, with all that said... this is my take on little rian and his entrance into the world. there's not much plot to be had, but there is a lot of tender papa jaskier, which is really all i need in life.  
> also, while i did try to leave out most of the grosser details, most of this story is about jaskier's labor, so... tread carefully, i suppose! i wouldn't say i wrote it in gruesome detail, but, i mean... it's kinda gross. c'est la vie.  
> happy reading!

Jaskier’s son is born beneath a clear, starry sky, on the coldest night of the winter thus far.

His labor starts slowly, creeping up on him in tandem with the sun cresting over the horizon. It begins as a dull ache in his hips, annoyingly persistent no matter how he tries to alleviate it. It’s nothing he’s not used to, by now, but to wake up to pain at the crack of dawn… Jaskier rests a hand on his belly before he rises, rubbing his thumb back and forth. The babe is suspiciously still, so he huffs out a sigh.

“Please don’t be too much trouble for me today, love,” he pleads, voice low and soft. For a moment, they seem to be at an understanding — and then there is a harsh kick to his palm.

Jaskier sighs. As if he had expected anything less.

By midday it’s shifted to periodic pulses of low, aching pains in the small of his back. By now, Jaskier has an inkling of what it might be, but he pushes the thought far out of his mind, lest the fear and paranoia truly sends him over the edge. He knows he’s due soon, knows that one of these days the baby will finally get fed up with him, but he doesn’t think he’s ready for that day to be _today._

(Ultimately, he does know that the baby doesn’t care whether or not he’s ready. It’s not a comforting thought.)

The first real contraction strikes not an hour later, as he’s knelt over the tabletops to scrub them down. He’s no stranger to the pains of false labor, but what grips him now is something entirely new. The coil of pain is white-hot as it wraps tightly around his belly, and it’s all Jaskier can do not to cry out. Instead, he clenches the dirty rag tightly in a white-knuckled grip, grinding his teeth together against the shout of agony that dies in his throat. When the pain does subside, he’s regretfully unable to keep back the shuddering exhale that follows as all the muscles in his body relax. He tries, fruitlessly, to even out the heaviness of his breathing, but it seems to be for naught; he can practically feel Szymon’s gaze as it turns on him, sharp and heavy.

“The fuck’s goin’ on over there?”

The innkeeper's voice is rough and gravelly, strangely akin to sandpaper against Jaskier’s ears. Try as he might to stand strong, it stirs up a harsh pang of fear deep in the pits of his stomach. He swallows thickly to get past it.

“Nothing!” he insists, hopefully not too quickly. “I’m — I’m fine, sir. Thank you. I’m sorry, sir.”

The beady gaze that’s been turned his way narrows. It’s clear that Szymon doesn’t believe him, but for whatever fateful reason, he keeps it to himself. It could be because he just doesn’t give a damn — which, for once, makes Jaskier incredibly thankful.

“Finish wiping up and then get the hell out of here,” he grunts. “I don’t need you stinking up the place right before dinner.”

Jaskier swallows thickly, cheeks burning hot with shame. He hadn’t noticed it before, too distracted by the pain, but the sour smell of agony and fear hangs heavy in the air. He says nothing for a moment, not sure what there really is to say, before Szymon’s patience seems to wear thin.

“Did that sound like a request?”

Jaskier’s grip on the rag tightens.

“No, sir. I’m sorry, sir. I’ll — I’ll be done shortly. Thank you, sir.”

He finishes wiping down the tables in record time, if only because he’s terrified by the thought of being struck by another contraction while Szymon can see him. Thankfully, he finishes his work and scurries up to his room without a hitch — and it is only when he clicks shut the latch on the door that another pain creeps up on him.

Jaskier can’t help but groan as it builds, placing his hands flat against the door and screwing his eyes shut. Nothing much has happened yet besides pain, but somewhere deep within him, the bard knows that this is real. It’s _time._ The timing of it almost makes him laugh, albeit dryly.

“Well, I suppose I can’t really be mad at you, can I?” Jaskier muses, shakily resting a hand on his middle. “you did at least wait until we had a bed.”

There is no response save for the tightening coil of the contraction reaching its peak. Another groan drags its way out of Jaskier’s lips.

It’s going to be a long night.

His water breaks hardly a few hours later, just as the sun dips below the horizon, and it is perhaps one of the most disgusting experiences of Jaskier’s life thus far. It is, however, also the most thrilling, if only because it means that he’s well on his way to getting this whole ordeal done and over with.

By now, he’s settled onto his knees, arms crossed in front of him on top of the bed, his cheek laid against his forearm. The hardwood floor digs harshly against his skin, but he can hardly bring himself to care. His mind is a hazy blur of fear and excitement, but above all, _pain._ He had known that this wasn’t going to be easy, but somehow, the agony still manages to overwhelm him.

“Oh, the things I do for you, little one,” he murmurs, shifting his weight slightly. “all I ask is that you please, _please_ don’t kill me.”

This, Jaskier finds, is a tall order.

Hours pass in a blur of low, insatiable agony. Somehow, as the pains get closer together, they grow even worse. Jaskier has taken to biting down on an old dish rag to muffle the moans of pain that each and every contraction draws out of him. No matter what he does — how he sits, stretches, lays, bends — it all just gets worse and worse. More than once, Jaskier wonders if this is the end — if this really is going to kill him after all.

It is late into the night, when the stars hang bright in the sky, that something finally changes.

Jaskier doesn’t know how long it’s been, or how long it will be after this — but something tells him that it won’t be much longer. He’s never been one to give into his omega side of things, but an instinct deep within him builds and builds until he can’t ignore it any longer. As he lays here now, with his back pressed firm against the wall and his fingers in a death grip on the sheets, he knows that something must be done. 

The thought is both terrifying and exhilarating all at once. For a moment, he thinks that there is nothing left within him to actually bring the babe into the world, but it is a thought he pushes quickly and roughly out of his mind. He’s come this far — he has to go all the way. He owes it to the little being that is relying on him to bring its life to a proper start.

So Jaskier clenches his jaw against the rag, presses his chin to his chest, and _screams._

The actual delivery of his baby passes in a blur of adrenaline, instinct, and agony. He settles into a rhythm without even realizing it — one, two, three, _push._ Try not to make a sound, but end up screaming into the cloth anyways. Wait for the contraction to reach its peak — take a deep, shuddering breath — then push again. Scream again, maybe. Wait for the pain to taper out, and let out a sob. Then rinse and repeat.

He isn’t quite sure how long it all drags on for — it could be minutes, or it could be hours. The sun has yet to peak over the horizon, leaving him at the mercy of the long stretch of the night. Jaskier isn’t sure how long this is supposed to last, but he’s growing weaker with each passing pain, and he’s not sure how much more of this he can take. 

Just as the thought crosses his mind, another pain washes over him. He groans low and deep against the rag, canting his hips downward to bear down once more, and — 

Something changes. Jaskier doesn’t know what it is, but with a start, all he knows is pressure and pain like he’s never felt before. For a brief, terrifying moment, he is absolutely certain that he’s going to die here — but then instinct takes over, and with a strength he didn’t know he had, Jaskier clenches his teeth hard. Tucking his chin against his chest, he pushes with everything he has, _screams_ with whatever is left, and then the pressure is gone, and suddenly it is all over.

Even without him telling it to, his body slumps back against the wall, his chest heaving with desperate gasps for air as he spits the rag away from his mouth. For a moment, Jaskier can hear nothing but his own shallow gulps of breath and the blood rushing through his ears. The silence is heavy, deafening, and terrifying.

Then something cracks. Somewhere in front of him, Jaskier hears a noise — something like a wet cough, but impossibly small. His breath catches in his throat as everything finally clicks into place, and his instincts take over once more. His hands are trembling, but they reach forward all the same, grasping around until he is hauling up a bloodied infant from the soiled sheets and up onto his bare chest.

The babe is warm and wet, slick with blood and other things Jaskier doesn’t care to think about. He can see patches of light, wrinkled skin, tinged with a pale shade of blue. Atop their head, there is a thick tuft of slick, dark hair. They are bloody and disgusting and _perfect,_ and Jaskier can do nothing but let his lips quirk up into a bright, wet smile, an incredulous laugh tumbling forth and ringing between them.

He opens his mouth to say something, to greet them — but then ten little fingers are curling into fists against his chest, and the babe is opening its mouth with another gurgling cough. Jaskier holds his breath, and after a long, aching moment, a piercing wail echoes into the night air.

And for the first time in a very, very long while, Jaskier _laughs._

“Oh, hello! Hello, hello…” he laughs, repeating himself without remorse. After all, it is the first time he is greeting his child, and he can think of nothing else to say. His hands are still shaking, but he rubs his palms back and forth against the baby’s skin all the same. “hi there, little one. Oh, you _are_ little, aren’t you? Look at you, you precious little thing — you seemed so much bigger when you were inside of me…”

Jaskier doesn’t even think to grab a blanket, instead letting his hands cradle the baby tenderly against his chest. They wriggle fitfully against him, face scrunched up and mouth wide open with the beginnings of another cry. Jaskier leans down and kisses their forehead, then their noise, then their cheeks… 

“Yes, it’s not so easy to take a breath for the first time, is it? Oh, you poor thing…” he coos, nuzzling his nose against their wet skin. They smell disgusting, like blood and sweat and things Jaskier doesn’t want to name, but he can’t find it within himself to care. Perhaps it’s the omega in him, urging him to scent and hold his pup until they’ve quieted down — or perhaps it is just _love,_ of the purest and rawest form. Love for the tiny little being that has lived within him for so long, and is now finally nestled safely in his arms.

“It must be so different, now that you’re out here,” Jaskier sighs. “so bright and cold and strange… not as comfy as in Papa’s belly, huh?”

The babe, in response, lets out another shrill cry. Jaskier laughs again.

“Yes, you’ve got quite the voice, haven’t you?” he asks. His voice cracks near the end, and he realizes now that he’s crying, but he can’t find it within himself to care. “Just like your Papa. Nice and loud, nice and healthy… yes, yes, you sure are good at crying, aren’t you?”

Jaskier shifts the babe as it squirms, flailing recklessly in its father’s arms. He presses a kiss to the head of slick, dark hair.

“And you’re pretty too, aren’t you? Just look at all of that hair…” Jaskier muses. He strokes a thumb gently across the dark, damp locks. “I suffered quite the heartburn to give you that nice head of hair, you know. Oh, but you look so beautiful with it…” 

Another laugh bubbles up out of his lips.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispers. “You’re gorgeous and you’re tiny and you’re _perfect,_ my darling little one.” 

He gives the baby a quick once over, and upon his realization, can’t help but laugh.

“My little boy! My beautiful, sweet baby boy…” Jaskier gives the babe another kiss on the forehead. “hello. I’m your Papa, sweet thing. And I love you so very, very much.”

His son whines, wriggling further against him. The babe, in his glorious first few minutes of life, knows nothing but the warmth and the scent of his father, and Jaskier watches as his son tries to hide against his chest, seeking for the only thing he has ever known. The realization pulls another breathy laugh from his lips, and he buries his nose against the boy’s mess of dark curls.

“My darling little boy…” he murmurs, taking in the baby’s beauty through a cloudy gaze. He hadn’t known what to expect his child to look like, but now that his eyes are upon him, he can’t imagine anything different.

Jaskier thinks that maybe he had expected to see a tiny version of himself — or worse, the babe’s alpha father — but the little one in his arms is nothing but perfection, plain and simple. And while Jaskier knows for certain that his son’s curls are darker than his own, and that his pale olive skin doesn’t match his own peachy color, he couldn’t imagine the boy looking any other way. He is not Jaskier, nor his alpha father — he is _himself,_ an entirely new life that Jaskier worked so tirelessly to bring into this world. It makes a strange sense of pride surge through his chest — and yet, he finds himself sighing.

“Oh, I don’t know what to name you, love,” he admits. “I’d been thinking about it, but now that I’m looking at you, I don’t know if there’s a name that’s as perfect as you are.”

Surely there can’t be, right? Of all the letters and sounds he can think to put together, Jaskier thinks that none of them would ever come close to being as perfect as the tiny being in his arms. Even _love_ and _darling_ aren’t nearly enough — nothing could ever tell his little one just how much he means to him, or how dear he is to his heart.

Jaskier heaves another sigh. The baby has finally begun to quiet down, though he’s still wiggling like a fish against his bare chest. Jaskier knows there is more to be done — blood to be wiped off, a cord to be cut, an afterbirth to be passed — not to mention the task of his first feeding… but for now, he can think to do nothing but hold his son close to his chest. 

(He did just have a baby, after all. He thinks he deserves a little self-indulgence.)

“But I will name you,” he promises, ghosting a finger against his son’s cheek. “and I will _love_ you. You know that, don’t you? Oh, my sweet little one, I still am so very sorry that it was me you were born to. I wish you could have had a life somewhere much nicer than what I can give you.”

And he _does._ Despite it all, even though he has fallen completely and utterly in love with his son in a matter of minutes, he knows all too well that the boy deserves far more than what he can give him. There is not much Jaskier can give after all, and the thought brings another wave of tears flooding to his eyes. Even so, he presses a wet kiss to the boy’s forehead, taking in a shuddering breath.

“But I can give you love,” he says. His voice is shaking, but he knows that he is telling the truth. “All that I have, darling, and more. Because you’re my son, my sunshine, my _everything,_ and I love you. More than I could ever begin to tell you in words.”

There aren’t any words good enough, he thinks. He could kiss the boy’s little face until they’ve both gone silly, and he could whisper himself hoarse with his declarations of love, but it would never be enough.

And when words are not enough, well… what is left for a bard to do but _sing?_

Jaskier adjusts the still whimpering babe in his arms until he’s holding him properly, cradling him close to his chest. All that comes to mind is a melody from his childhood, something he hasn’t sung in a very long time — and yet, the tune pulls itself from his lips all the same, low and melodic.

“ _A cloudy trail above the sunlit sky,  
A never ending line that passes us by.  
Somehow knowing where it’s going,  
Somehow moving and yet waiting,  
Gently guiding us to what will be…_”

His gaze remains fixed on his son all the while, drinking in each and every detail of the boy’s face as he reacts to the melody ringing through his ears. His face scrunches up, and for a brief, terrifying moment, Jaskier thinks he might start crying again — but then little lashes open with a flurry of movement, and Jaskier is met with a warm, deep chocolate brown gaze. 

Jaskier’s breath catches in his throat. Faintly, he remembers a passing fear that his child would not inherit his own cornflower blues — or worse, that the eyes that would look back at him from his child’s face would be the very same ones that hurt him so very long ago.

And perhaps his son’s eye color does come from his alpha father. But as he looks up at Jaskier now, gaze cloudy and unfocused yet somehow alight with wonder and confusion for this world he’s been brought into… any fear that Jaskier once had is swept away all at once in a flurry of pure adoration for the being that he’s created.

(So he holds the baby tighter, and continues to sing. What else is there to do?)

“ _As I take a shallow breath I dwell on memories;  
All the moments past and halcyon days so carefree.  
I’m remembering…”_

The boy makes a little noise, turning his head to press his face against the rumbling warmth of his father’s skin. Jaskier presses a chaste kiss to the top of his head, singing low against the dark curls.

“ _So embrace the melody that will set your spirit free;  
Listen for the quiet voice that is echoing.  
The remembrances of old tell the stories never told;  
Think of summer’s tender light, gentle radiance from high,  
Never forget what has been, what is to be…  
The name of life. _”__

__As his melody comes to a close, Jaskier becomes acutely aware of his son, now mostly still in his arms. Their eyes meet once again, and the look of pure _wonder_ in the baby’s deep brown eyes makes his heart clench tightly in his chest. Jaskier reaches out to gently brush a finger against the baby’s nose, chuckling softly when he scrunches his face in protest. _ _

__“Do you like my singing, love?” asks Jaskier, his voice a breathy murmur against the night air. The baby makes an indistinguishable noise and wriggles some more against his chest. “well, I suppose I’ll take that as a yes, then. Oh, I can’t wait to write songs for you, sweet thing. I know I don’t have my lute anymore, but I’ll sing to you until my voice goes sour, if it means you’ll look at me with those eyes again.”_ _

__His son gives another soft whine, so Jaskier leans down and kisses his button nose. He lets his finger drag slowly across the baby soft skin until he’s pressing his fingernail gently against the baby’s tiny open palm. Jaskier watches the boy fondly as he adjusts to the new feeling — and when his five little fingers finally wrap around his father’s, he can’t help but laugh._ _

__“You’re perfect,” he breathes. “absolutely perfect. I love you so much, my darling little boy.”_ _

__The baby blinks at him, long and slow. Jaskier moves in to give him another kiss to his little face, but is stopped by a brief catch of light through the corner of his eye. When he lifts his head, he is met with the beginnings of the morning light pouring in through the broken shutters of the window._ _

__And perhaps he’s still riding the adrenaline of having a child — or perhaps, he thinks, he really has taken the sunrise for granted all this time. As he looks ahead now, drinking in the orangey glow of the sun that has yet to crest over the horizon, he is suddenly struck by the beauty of it all. Has the world always been this _gorgeous?__ _

__“A new day,” he murmurs, sunbeams dancing across cornflower blues. Speaking of gorgeous — he turns his gaze back to the tiny being in his arms, who is still staring up at him through a wide umber gaze. “and a new life.”_ _

__The realization hits him slowly, like the crest of the rising sun. All at once, there is an answer — and Jaskier can do nothing but lean down and press a kiss to the babe’s brow. Gently, he murmurs against the bed of dark curls._ _

__“Welcome, Rian.”_ _

**Author's Note:**

> the title and the song jaskier sings come from [the name of life](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7Coy_R6Eylk) from spirited away, because i have been listening to it for days and could not stop imagining jaskier singing it, too. i am very emotional.  
> thanks again to ceteiq for letting me write this little ficlet based on their lovely story! this is a little strange and self indulgent, but hey - a girl can have some papa jaskier. as a treat.  
> one of these days i'd love to write my own witcher kidfic, but for now, writing this was a real treat! i hope someone out there also enjoys this kind of content, and that it's not just me. ahah...  
> until next time!


End file.
